A tall young man with warm brown eyes walks across the soft Persian carpet of a Melbourne mosque, smiling. Imam Alaa El Zokm stands almost two metres, and in his long, grey clerical robes seems even taller, as though his height were a conscious decision – something to help better watch over all 600 people here at the Elsedeaq Islamic Society in suburban Heidelberg Heights.
The building sits on a corner surrounded by weatherboard houses, and right now old men and tiny boys and taxi drivers on lunch break – a mix of Egyptians, Somalis and Australians – are stopping in for the imam's khutbah or Friday speech, the Muslim equivalent of a Sunday sermon. They shake his large, soft hands, and nod to one another. They pick up copies of Australian Arabic newspaper Al-Wasat, glance at the headline ("The Climate of Fear that Divides Australian Society") and skim ads for camel milk and sharia-compliant investments.
We meet at the mosque some time before new US President Donald Trump issues an executive order targeting citizens from seven predominantly Muslim countries, creating international outrage. The imam has been advising his flock not to worry about Trump, not as "much as we should about ourselves". When news breaks of the order, I call him. He says he is not angry or even confused by Trump's latest attack on Muslims, but instead disappointed. "And unfortunately we hear the same thing from some people in Australia, like Pauline Hanson. It is taking us back to an age of darkness. This is something against humanity."
The people who come to his mosque are mostly from Somalia, one of the seven countries identified for "extreme vetting". He tells me that they came immediately to him, seeking comfort. "They are frightened," he said. "But I tell them that the majority of the American people are educated and good, and renounce racism, and want to live in a peaceful society, and are against this decision. I tell them I have hope."
But on this day long before the Trump inauguration, it is a regular day at the mosque. It fills until the hall is bursting, as are the ante-rooms, carport and the lawn outside. The women and girls sit upstairs in a balcony behind a fabric veil, listening to his words on a closed-circuit TV loop. Among the crowd is Abdi Alasoo, 50, a retired scaffolder and part-time Uber driver who left Somalia 30 years ago "with $100 and a one-way ticket".
I ask how he likes the young imam, who is 27 and has been with the mosque two years, and whom I plan to follow for three months to see what it means to live at the centre of an Islamic community in Australia. Before Alasoo can answer, the imam overhears and offers his own self-assessment: "Good. Very good," the imam says, laughing and waving. "You say, 'The sheikh is very good.' I will pay you!"
Alasoo says as much anyway. The whole flock does. "Sheikh Alaa," they say, knows Islam, speaks English, is highly educated, and he is moderate. "He says it is our job to convince others that what the people say, the media says, the terrorist says, is not us," says Alasoo. "We have to show more of that good thing."
In the mornings, afternoons and late nights I spend with the imam, he has many avenues for spreading his message. As a spiritual adviser, of course, but also as a school teacher, marriage counsellor and confidant – mediator of business rifts and settler of personal quarrels. The imam is the man his congregation can turn to at any hour, with a Facebook message or pre-dawn phone call or a knock at the door near midnight, which they do with a torrent of questions and problems for him to reconcile.
His wife, 21-year-old Rheme Al-Hussein, says they call from his native Egypt, too, all through the night. He exists on coffee with milk and two sugars. "I feel sorry for him sometimes," she says. "At the end of the day I can tell when he's not there, when I'm talking to a wall."
He stands now inside the mihrab, a semicircular wall cavity that faces Mecca. The crescent-shaped architectural feature can be found in most mosques and once acted as a kind of amplifier. In the new millennium, a headset microphone will do. He prays now, eyes closed, shoulders rising and falling as he takes deep gulps of air to sing each undulating phrase. And then he ascends the minbar – a raised platform of timber steps – to a seat like a throne. (The imam tells me later that this is not merely to elevate him in the eyes of others. "It is also for the imam himself," he says. "When he goes up, he should know that he is a role model for everyone, that his sayings must match his actions.")
The sayings in this speech come in a passionate Arabic flurry. Afterwards, he repeats the same in developing English. "We must address the Islamophobia!" he says. "People are afraid from the Islam. They see Islam and see the terrorist. They see Islam and they see the mistreatment of the women. They see Islam and they see the jihad. But as the Prophet said, the most important jihad is the jihad within! It is the jihad against hatred, and the hardened heart."
He likens a fear of Muslims to a fear of snakes – snakes that are more afraid of you than you of them, and that are rarely encountered. A recent Ipsos Mori poll found that while the Muslim population of Australia is little more than 2.4 per cent, Australians on average believe the religion accounts for 18 per cent. Furthermore, an Essential Research poll recently found 49 per cent of Australians would support a ban on Islamic immigration, citing perceived concerns over terrorism and Muslims failing to share Australian values. Another study found 60 per cent would be "troubled" by a relative marrying a Muslim.
I tell [my community] that the majority of the American people are educated and good, and renounce racism, and want to live in a peaceful society, and are against this decision. I tell them I have hope.
"We must reach out. We must!" he pleads. "It is our responsibility – to make friends with the non-Muslim, to show them who we are, so that when something bad happens they can point to us and say 'No! This is my friend! He is Muslim and he is not like this – this is not what he believes.' We must be role models."
Imam Alaa El Zokm at the Elsedeaq Islamic Society in Melbourne's Heidelberg Heights. Photo: Damien Pleming
Alaa El Zokm sits on a white leather couch in his yellow brick veneer home opposite the mosque. Hussein hands me a plate of orange wedges, strawberries and mango, then sits down. Zokm reaches across, touches an eyelash off his wife's cheek, and blows it away.
They have an easy rapport. No kids yet. Hussein is focused on school. In her third year of a master's degree in speech pathology, the workload is heavy.
They met almost three years ago when the imam first came for a visit from Egypt, invited here to consider a position with the mosque and a school. "I didn't know anything about Australia," he says. "Nothing. The end of the earth? Kangaroos?"
His hosts then were wary for the imam, worried that the religious leader would explore Australian streets and be confused or upset when passing a raucous corner pub or a Victoria's Secret store. He watched American movies growing up, however, and so the culture shock was not so extreme, even though he remains steadfast on matters such as drinking or sex before marriage. "It's very clear," he says. "It's not allowed. In any way."
Near the end of his trip, the imam was invited by a sheikh to meet two local girls. The Lebanese one, he was told, was more religious, and the Egyptian one more beautiful. Who did he want to meet?
The imam was stunned. He went along to a home in Melbourne's north, however, and the Lebanese girl was there, being taught the Koran. She was shy and did not look at him. He didn't look at her, either. They both giggle at the memory. "It was very funny!" says Hussein. "We didn't even meet! It was so weird. He was here for three weeks and going back to Egypt. I was only 18."
They both thought and prayed. Hussein had always wanted to marry an Islamic leader, and the imam knew marriage could be advantageous. "The imam is always watched," he says. "Sometimes it is not enough to be a pure person." He returned to Egypt, taking with him a photo of Hussein, permission from her family to talk on Facebook, and a video of her reciting the Koran. He kept the video secret for a week, watching it alone every day. "What am I to say to my mother? 'I saw a girl, and I would like to be engaged with her, and leave you all?' My family is not ready for this."
The imam grew up in Itay El Baroud, a small city on the Nile Delta. His mother taught him the Koran. From five, the little boy would memorise a passage, go and play with his friends, while his mother memorised the same section – to test him upon his return. "This motivated me, this competition with my mum, not to make mistakes. She would say, 'I am working, doing all my duties in the house, and memorising better than you.' She sometimes was sleeping only two hours. It makes you feel ashamed if you are not doing your best."
Zokm became a childhood Koran contest champion, besting as many as 5000 competitors at a time. He went to Cairo's prestigious Al-Azhar University, which for more than 1000 years has been a beacon for the faith, representing a moderate stream of Islam. Hussein recalls his pledge to her during their eight-month, long-distance, online courtship: "I will never stop you from knowledge."
They were engaged on Skype, Hussein in northern Melbourne's Roxburgh Park with her family, the imam in Itay El Baroud with his. The agreement was sealed by reading the first page of the Koran. And then he was here, married in a tea hall in front of several hundred people: "It's something you never imagine. Being here, living here, a new wife, a new life."
Alaa El Zokm playing his weekly post-prayer soccer match against the young men of the mosque. Photo: Damien Pleming
The imam speeds away from the mosque at 7.37pm on a Sunday night, wearing a Chelsea Football Club tracksuit. He's headed to an indoor basketball court, part of the Olympic village from the 1956 Summer Games, to play a weekly post-prayer soccer match against the young men of the mosque.
"The image that comes to mind for a sheikh or imam is a hard person," he says, turning the wheel of his Mazda 3. "People will try to be silent, to listen, because they are afraid to say something wrong, thinking, 'I can't joke with him. I can't ask him to come play PlayStation.' And it is not true. The religion is not what will keep you from enjoying life. If this was the religion, I would never follow it!"
But is he any good with the round ball? "You will see," he says, smirking. "I don't want to talk about myself."
The guys are already on the squeaking wood surface under big industrial globes, and soon the imam is among them, loping after the ball like a lost giraffe. But then he kicks, and he has a cannon. He fires shots from all angles and the ball thuds against posts and bodies. He does not often pass.
"Stop shooting!" yells one player, laughing.
"Oohhh Alaa!" cries another, as the imam attempts a speculative strike.
"Goon hayel!" jokes one spectator. (Arabic for "great goal", it is said sarcastically.)
Yet he scores five goals in 90 minutes of the three-hour game. As he walks off court he is patted on the back by Khaled Elkharibi, 21. "He just demolished half our team," says Elkharibi. "Five goals in a 15-goal game. And he only came in halfway."The radicalisation of young Islamic men is, naturally, a concern for the imam. But he has never known anyone to take up arms on behalf of Allah. Hussein believes most who do so are in fact "converts" to the religion. "They have no knowledge of Islam," she says. "They drink, they eat pork, they don't go to our schools, but they have the beard and white clothes."
The imam points the finger at chronically misinterpreted phrases within the Koran. "Jihad" is just one example. There are also passages that note whoever is killed for his country will be rewarded in paradise: "But this was from a time when Islam was under siege.
"Sometimes they go down this path for benefits," he adds. "They are promised wives or money or jobs by Islamic State, so they hide what they have in their minds."
It is a perfect spring evening in Melbourne; sunshine pours through the high windows of the Government House ballroom, striking a crystal chandelier above the imam, who sits in the third row of a large gathering.
A school orchestra is playing, bouncing prim notes off gilded walls painted with fleurs-de-lis. There are police, women in saris and tall Sudanese men, gathered for the Victorian Multicultural Awards for Excellence.
Speakers drop encouraging multiculturalism buzz-words: cross-cultural empathy and social harmony, diversity and diaspora. Maoris with spears perform the haka: "The harder we go, the more we feel, the greater the respect," says one. "We hope you feel respected." The imam nods.
The imam receives a Police Community Exemplary Award, recognising the work of the mosque through open days, volunteer efforts, Iftar dinners and Eid festivals. The imam looks resplendent in an ankle-length coat, the kakola, and his hat, the emma – the distinctive uniform of his alma mater in Egypt.
He wears such garb in public, too, at supermarkets and petrol stations. He has never been abused – "Perhaps because I am big" – but does notice people laughing at him sometimes, or looking worried. Yet he enjoys going into shops – even when he senses he is being watched. "They may be thinking, 'He has a bomb.' Let them have these thoughts," he says. "Because when you smile, and leave, and everyone is safe, you will change these thoughts."
The evening turns to Vivaldi, canapés, champagne or, in the case of the imam, apple juice. Inspector Anne Patterson, the local police commander, looks on as he poses for photos by a lamp-lit fountain. "Isn't he wonderful?" she whispers. "He's incredibly progressive as a thinker. I really like his central messages, about community harmony, the faith not being inconsistent with the Australian way of life. Even delivering his messages in English – realising that sometimes when they're only delivered in Arabic it can isolate others."
The latter gesture is not a simple one, either. English is his second language. When the imam first arrived, he would write his speeches and Hussein would translate them, and he would read English directly from the sheet. And then he stopped. He thanked his wife for her help, but decided to speak from the hip, even if it meant mistakes. "I was so scared when he said that," says Hussein. "I was like, 'What if you stuff up? What if you need help?' I can't be there, because I'm upstairs with the women. Then the first time he did it, I said, 'That's it, we're never going to do a translation again, because this is perfect.' "
They depart quickly, riding home in a police car. He is happy the windows are tinted, he jokes, so no one can see inside: "Otherwise our community will think that we are arrested!"
Imam Alaa El Zokm teaching an Islamic studies class at the Australian International Academy in Coburg North. “I teach them that God loves them,” he says, “rather than saying, ‘If you do this you will go to hell’. They are little bodies who want to enjoy life.” Photo: Jesse Marlow
It's Wednesday morning, the first week in November, the day after the Melbourne Cup, and the imam sits on grey carpet in the corner of a little mosque at the Australian International Academy of Education – an Islamic primary school. He is part of a circle of 15 year 2 students wearing blue jackets and maroon jumpers, with plastic heart bracelets and purple Swatches. They are discussing love.
The imam has taught before at schools in the Middle East, most notably Saudi Arabia. He saw much there that confused him, such as women not being allowed to drive. "If you say, 'This is the policy of the country,' I will accept this – this is your rules, your law – but if you try to make this an Islamic thing, this is wrong," he says. "She has to go outside – that is normal life."
In Australia, the imam shields children from stringent lessons about what is lawful and not. "I teach them that God loves them," he says, "rather than saying, 'If you do this you will go to hell.' They are little bodies who want to enjoy life."
He teaches through brainstorming, reflection and practice. ("I teach them how to discuss," he says, "not to know.") And today the lesson is the mosque itself – a place most have never really been before. They are incredibly excited. With each question the imam asks, arms shoot high and the kids – like Jumanah, Salman and Fatima – squirm onto their knees, contorting their tiny forms, desperate to answer.
He asks first, "What do you know about the mosque?"
You have to be very quiet?
You can't talk while the sheikh is reciting the Koran.
It's a place you pray.
It's where we read the Koran.
You come to the mosque so Allah can take away all your sins.
"Excellent," he says. "We come to the mosque because everyone is making mistakes. And we come to ask forgiveness."
It's where we tell the truth?
"Yes, but we say the truth everywhere, don't we? We say the truth at home, outside. Always."
He explains why the mosque is called "Allah's house". He talks about why the lines on the floor face Mecca, and why congregants line up: "What does it teach us?"
To not be racist?
"Yes, can you explain this?"
Because if you are a white person you might be sitting next to a brown person?
"That's right," he says. "The Prophet is teaching us equality. There is no difference between the person who comes from Pakistan or India, from the rich person and the poor person."
Imam Alaa El Zokm at the Australian International Academy in Coburg North last November. Photo: Jesse Marlow
Leyla Mohamoud, the head of the campus, says the imam is the perfect teacher for spirituality. She wants to show me the school, too, and explain how they have footy days, and ties to local scout groups. She points to photos from Halloween, when the kids came as vampires and chefs and superheroes. The tour ends in the art room, where the walls are covered in drawings of smiling faces.
The imam points to a pencil sketch of a smiling girl with green eyes. He notes that in other parts of the world, such a picture could not exist. "It is forbidden," he says, looking into the rendered face, and shaking his head. "But these eyes are beautiful."
Alaa El Zokm sharing chores with his wife, Rheme. “This is a problem with the husbands,” the imam says. “They do not help.” Photo: Damien Pleming
Such behaviours are, he says, habits. Bad ones. This was the subject of his speech only an hour earlier at the mosque: What is Islam, what is faith, and what is not?
While there are no great schisms within the mosque, there are local Sunni who do not want to sit with the Shia. There are those who do not believe that eliminating Islamophobia is the responsibility of those who follow Islam, but those who have the phobia. "Some of them come angry, and I have to absorb their anger," the imam says, grasping the air in front of him, and drawing it to his chest. "I listen, smile. I find a verse of the Koran, something common between us."
He pins a final T-shirt to the line, and a rainbow lorikeet rests on a lemon-scented gum nearby. "We believe that this is our job – our mission in life," he says, as the bird sings into the day. "If we don't do this, then later we will be asked by God, 'What did you do with the message you had?' If we don't spread this message, we will not prosper. If we don't do this, then who will?"